Of Home and Heroes
by TYRider
Summary: Sherlock learns that you can't always go home... Nothing stays the same. Post Fall. Spoilers.


**A/N: First attempt at a oneshot. Enjoy and please read and review. I'd love to hear what you thought of it.  
Warning: Set Post Reichen Back Falls and contains spoilers.  
Disclaimer: Only the plot is mine, the rest belongs to those blessed others.**

"Finally." Sherlock sighs, relief flooding him as he realizes it's all finally over. The last of Moriarty's web lies dead at his feet. "Finally." He repeats, savoring the word. "I can finally go home." He whispers to the inky-black emptiness of the Russian night.

He lets his mind wander into the 221B Baker Street replica in his Mind Palace. He's greeted by familiar sights: John sitting in his chair and plucking away at his laptop, Mrs. Hudson fixing a cuppa in the kitchen with a hand on her aggravated hip, the violin is perched in the window, experiments are bubbling on the table, the couch is covered in a comfortable layer of cold-case files, even Lestrade is there, standing in the doorway with a new file in his hand. _Home._ Sherlock thinks, closing his eyes in his Mind Palace to better pick up the comforting scents—tea and gunpowder, biscuits and cooking eyeballs.

Sherlock pulls himself back to the present, pointing his feet in the approximate direction of Baker Street. "Time to go home. Time to see John."

XXXXXXXXXX

_Six months. Thirteen days. Thirty minutes. _Sherlock counted to himself as he walked down the familiar street. Collar up on a strange new coat, hat pulled low, shades covering his eyes. It wouldn't do for the general populace to know before John. That wouldn't be fair. Sherlock reveled in thought of no more hiding, infinitely pleased at the prospect of wearing his own great coat and blue scarf again. And seeing John—damn, how he'd missed his blogger—his friend. He took a moment to imagine their reunion and gave a pained smile, he could already feel John's right hook across his jaw.

Sherlock treads lightly up the first two steps, pausing momentarily, suddenly unsure what to do. Almost reverently he pulls out his own key to the flat and unlocks the door. _Home. _Lanky legs fly up the stairs, tired and hungry eyes search for the face he's missed.

"John!" He calls, forgetting his pride as he rushes into the living room. "John! It's me—I'm _home!_" He yells, not caring if he gives his flatmate a heart attack and my, how good those words feel upon his lips. "John!" he shouts again, but only silence returns his call. He looks about with frantic energy, but John's not there.

Observing for the first time since entering the flat sherlock takes a turn about the rooms. It's not right. There are Sherlock's things left neatly where he'd last used them, but John's things are oddly missing, no laptop on the desk, no jumper left thrown over the back of a chair, every sign of John is gone—even the bloody cane. He made another mad tour of the flat—no, not gone, boxed. _Why?_

Sherlock spun around, hopeful at the sound of footsteps on the stair and found himself face to face with Mrs. Hudson, who stood stricken in the doorway.

XXXXXXXXXX

It's a quiet, cloudless day—a rarity for London. Sherlock gazes up at the azure sky as he walks down the lonely dirt path hedged in by grand oaks on either side. A cold wind blows and chills the bare skin of his face and hands. He wishes it were colder. He wishes he was numb, anything to dull this ache.

Finally, he reaches the end of the path and his journey, now deep in the heart of the big park. Underneath the barren branches of a great ancient tree Sherlock finds himself face-to-face with a familiar, but still strange sight—The large black stone that marks his own grave.

Things were much the same as they were last time, Sherlock remarks absently to himself. Time seems to pass kindly by cemeteries, reverent. Leaving them not untouched, but softly caressed. Only gently marking the seasons by the leaves of the trees and the rippling grass of the ground and then of course there's the quiet filling of a previously empty plot. Time works its fingers over these too, mending the torn earth and tastefully ornamenting the sites, seeming to gather each new addition as a shepherd gathers a lamb into the fold. Time no longer haunts the dead, but seems to cherish and protect them, preserving their memory by leaving the tombstones mostly unharmed.

Sherlock forces himself to look at what he came to see—

A white marble stone now accompanies Sherlock's black one. Like the person who's life it commemorates it's shorter and stockier, but elegant, brighter. It stands proudly by the side of the taller black stone in death just as it's owner had stood by Sherlock's side in life.

For once the self-proclaimed heartless sociopath gives in to sentiment and with an unrestrained sob Sherlock crumples to the ground like a broken toy, resting his head against the white stone. Slowly, he reaches up to touch the fitting epitaph above his head.

Here Lies  
John Hamish Watson  
Brave Soldier  
Caring Doctor  
Loyal Friend

_Hero._ Sherlock's mind adds. Pulling himself together a little he voices the thought out loud. "Hero." He chokes out, eyes closed tightly. "They need to add 'Hero.'" He says, finding it strangely comforting to talk to John's tombstone. "John, I know that I told you once that there were no heros, but," he pauses, no longer able to bite back the hot tears pouring down his face. "But I was wrong, John."


End file.
